


Weeping I saw him then depart from me

by Aja



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cannibalism, Dark, M/M, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Sexual Fantasy, Vore, Will is a Cannibal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2015-09-02
Packaged: 2018-04-18 17:15:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4714043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aja/pseuds/Aja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will will slice any throat Hannibal asks him to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Weeping I saw him then depart from me

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, man, I posted an anonymous version of this the other day bc I was like 'this is terrible and not canon and i will be done with this fandom after the finale anyway,' and originally Will and I were laced with appropriate amounts of shame and guilt because murder husbands, except then the finale happened and i made 80 hannigram gifs and wrote two more fics and then i really just needed to go back and add more to this one because holy shit _murder husbands_ and basically cannibalistic queer serial killers in love have taken over my life. if you already read this i'm sorry for putting it on here again, but on the upside, MURDER HUSBANDS.

Through me you go into a city of weeping;

through me you go into eternal pain;

through me you go amongst the lost people.  
  
— Dante, _Inferno_

 

If his mother were still alive. If his mother (not his father, never his father) were still alive, then perhaps none of this would have happened—perhaps Hannibal would never have happened to him. If his mother were still alive he would have had someone to be accountable to, but now, with Beverly and Abigail dead, with Molly gone, with Alana out of fucks to give, with Bedelia clearly pursuing her own interests—Will really has no one.

Not Jack. Jack may be bedrock but he's also the coldest foundation of Will's obsession, and with Bella gone Jack truly has no interest in holding Will accountable or being held accountable himself.

So there is no one—no one and nothing except Hannibal, and Will wants to bend for him, wants to curve against him like the edge of a bow, taut and vibrating with secondhand energy from Hannibal's strings. He wants to play Hannibal, and be played, and come into him like the dark of twilight, slipping shadows around the corners of day. He wants to be the edge to Hannibal's brightness, the core of light at the center of his darkness; he wants Hannibal to be his.

No: Hannibal _is_  his. 

He wants to feel what he felt when he bathed in Hannibal's blood. He wants that again—the blood, the surge of hot pleasure and warmth and life against his skin, and it's a marvel, isn't it, how close fucking and dying are to one another—aesthetically speaking that is, how the pulse of thick spurts of hannibal's blood over his skin had made him harder that day than anything had in his life up until the moment he sank his knife into Dolarhyde's gut, feeling Hannibal's approval bearing down on him as inexorably as fate. How often Hannibal has compared sex and murder. How hard Will gets just thinking about how conjoined their thoughts are, how Hannibal _chose him_ to share all this with because he knew Will when he saw him, from the very first moment, and Will would slice any throat Hannibal asked him to for the heady victory of being the one Hannibal asked, the _idée fixe_ in Hannibal's dark firmament, as Hannibal is his. As they are _each other's_ , wholly, completely, now and always.

How much Hannibal has shown him already, how much more he still has to learn. How good a pupil Will plans on being, the very, very best and brightest. How he'll nudge up against Hannibal's mind like the bookend to his autobiography—keeping him in place right where Will wants him.

He wants to summon rivers of blood at his leisure. He wants to turn human corpses into marionettes and make them dance, arrange them just so, for his pleasure, while Hannibal watches. He wants to carve shapes and portraits from human flesh as Hannibal does, become an artist in his own right, just the way Hannibal always believed he could be.

He wants to arrange Hannibal, too, just so; wants to take his time with him, letting the edges where they meet dim and blur until they are one and the same, in one another, being one another, his body in Hannibal's in his, his mouth against Hannibal's against his, palms burning the contours of his own soul where he strokes Hannibal's hot flesh until he cries and comes and begs and worships and demands more, always more.

He wants—

he wants Hannibal to _feed_  him.

He wants to be fed. 

He wants to feel Hannibal's fingers at his mouth, fingertips forcing him to savor what he already knows he must learn to enjoy, must come to crave. 

He wants to rut against the taste of human flesh, feel the essence of it lingering against his lips. To kiss Hannibal with blood and meat between his teeth, to let Hannibal fuck him and fuck him and feed him and tear out his throat if he must, but only if he must—because there are so many things, he wants them to try together first.

Oh, the pigs they'll slaughter. Oh, how they'll writhe together in blood and sweat, drunk on plum-ripe flesh and each other. How the stars will go out one by one above until the dark arousal in Hannibal's eyes is the only guiding light Will needs (and oh, how he needs). How he'll make Hannibal come, turn him inside out, beg him for everything; how Will will make him burn and pay and eat and die for him over and over again, how he'll break the world and himself over and over, every single time the knife hits the jugular, the calf, the spine, every time he opens his mouth to welcome blood and cartilage and pieces of raw flesh, every time he sees the final breath of a soul exiting the earth for hell, he'll break and tear and rip apart and then reknit the world and himself again and again with every shudder and broken cry and climax and thrust of his body inside Hannibal's inside his, every pulse and clench and tremble when they come, alive and alight and reborn from fire and blood and hail.

He's already given himself over, been remade in Hannibal's image. He is the perfect, intractable demon Dolarhyde had failed to create, because he hadn't been lucky enough to have Hannibal at his side. No. He doesn't want to be held accountable, and there's no one left who wants to try. A small favor from fate, since he plans to devour anyone who stands in the way of his becoming, the way Hannibal has already devoured him whole from the inside out.

And in the end, Hannibal's name will be on his lips, and Hannibal's flesh in his flesh—and the sweet taste of life, new and old, on his tongue.

How soon can he start?


End file.
